


Remember Me

by Scene_Scribe



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars: Vader - Fandom
Genre: Star Wars Theory, Vader: Shards of the Past (Fan Film)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 10:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17660963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scene_Scribe/pseuds/Scene_Scribe
Summary: For eight months, Darth Vader has enforced the Emperor's commands. A confrontation between the two causes old wounds to resurface as Vader struggles with his dark fate.





	Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [VADER EPISODE 1: SHARDS OF THE PAST - A STAR WARS THEORY FAN-FILM](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/454481) by Star Wars Theory. 



The suit was failing him.

From within its confines, Vader narrowed his eyes against the blinding light of the twisting strands encircling him and struggled to conserve every precious breath. His primary respirator was gone, and it was only a matter of moments before the backup system ceased to operate as well, leaving him to suffocate and burn within his armored prison.

He had felt pain before, but not like this. The intruding currents seemed to be purposefully seeking out every molecule of tissue throughout his ravaged body still responsive enough to suffer their touch. They were surprisingly cold, like daggers of ice against warm skin. Vader had survived the opposite and knew what it was like to pray for a release from such pain. This, however, was different.

It was almost welcoming.

Such was the ultimate nature of the Force, Vader believed. Even through the most all-consuming darkness, there was eventually a kind of peace for those strong enough to endure it – or embrace it.

Vader considered allowing the feeling to claim him, even while the gleeful cackles of the Emperor rang throughout the blazing chamber, no doubt in mockery of his dying apprentice’s vain attempt to entertain the notion of solace.

Vader felt his toppled body growing heavier as the reinforced circuitry in his artificial limbs began to disintegrate in quick succession. He gazed down at the hand propping him up and, against his better instincts, exhaled deeply upon noting how the gloved fingers now convulsed. A deep fog of mingled air and smoke exited the ventilation grate of his mask as Vader choked – and despaired.

It would be easy now for him to just…

No.

Not for him, and not for her.

Vader looked down once again upon the hand and saw its fingers clenching according to his will and crumbling the very foundation upon which they rested. In response, the currents of energy reaching across the room seemed to intensify, with the piercing shrieks of their maniacal conjurer likewise reaching a new height of revelry in anticipation of his impending victory. Vader listened patiently to the premature celebration, now more than content to let the cloaked man make the most of his final moments while his usurped energy found a new purpose.

The Force was everywhere and in everything. In weakness, there was power. In power, weakness.

Vader turned to face his master and extended his right hand, which, for an instant, became incandescent with the same fury the old man had carelessly thought to reserve only for his benefit.

The Force was not so selfish.

Vader curled his fingers, pulling the ravenous strings of searing light with a conviction that immediately severed their connection to the Emperor’s outstretched hands. The old man’s laugh dropped dead in his throat as the air around him ceased to singe from his mighty demonstration. His display had been only one manifestation – a focused disturbance – of the omnipresent Force, and a restoration of tranquility, even for a second, was the preferred balance. Unable to utter a word, he could only look on in horror while his impotent fists shook in recognition of a tide now turned.

Vader extended his fingers in the direction of the Emperor, knowing that to be one with the Force truly meant acknowledging no concept of separation. Such things were illusions, much like the physical space between himself and the Emperor was, at most, a symptom of a tainted mind. And so did the student’s own corruption vanish as the warm flesh of the Emperor’s neck moved quickly to settle into Vader’s hand.

Struggling was only natural at first, and the Emperor did so with a zeal unmatched even by the arrogance he had been compelled to abandon only moments before. Vader’s grip was steadfast, truly unwavering as it constricted and expelled the gurgling protestations from the old man’s twisted mouth. His breaths grew fainter as Vader’s own rose beyond what should have been possible in his condition.

Through the blackened lenses of his guise, Vader looked into the Emperor’s eyes and wondered if the man could see him past the reflection staring back. Surely, he knew they were the same — here, at both the end and the beginning.

Vader barely heard the bone snap as the Emperor’s body stiffened and the face beneath the hooded cloak froze in grotesque shock. One final exhale escaped the corpse’s gaping mouth before Vader allowed the body to slump to the floor.

For a moment, he could only stare into the vacant eyes of his former master and wonder if the Force reserved places beyond for men of such quality. One day his own time would come, and he could truly know the answer.

Vader eyed the devastation around him, drained of the strength to reflect even a hint of satisfaction. His breath escaped now as little more than a tortured, mechanical wheeze through the filter of his mask, mixing reluctantly with the distant wail of the security sirens. The lights from behind the numerous sconces lining the chamber walls had gone crimson since the sounding of the first alarms, and the unsettling hue continued to dominate the room’s interior, even as equally powerful flames writhed rhythmically among the dead and debris.

Vader, still maintaining control of his damaged arm, reached out for his lightsaber, which, having been disabled by the Emperor, now rested a distance away. The weapon responded with little effort and cut its way across the room to Vader’s weary hand. This too he examined for a time, all the while testing the integrity of the dormant hilt in an attempt to assess the responsiveness of his fingers. Vader tightened his grip.

So many had fallen by the blade and likewise the hand which now struggled to hold on to it. At times, he could still hear them screaming.

As Vader lowered the weapon from his gaze, his eyes settled on a small object lying just outside the folds of the Emperor’s robe. For a second, Vader struggled to focus his vision, even though the rest of his senses found no worthwhile impediment to their immediate recognition — the distinct shape, the hand-carved engravings…

Reaching down to pick it up, Vader felt his fingers tremble slightly. It was exactly as he remembered.

A different hand had held it then, but the charm remained the same. Time had done little wear to the smooth finish of the japor ivory wood. Even the string of leather serving as the snippet’s necklace had managed to withstand the years. Vader had known and appreciated the enduring quality of the chosen material when he had made it.

No, not him. When young Anakin Skywalker had—

“I made this for you. So… you’d remember me.” The voice penetrated the veil of Vader’s thoughts, so clear and resonating that it startled him.

Many times he had dreamed a dream, only to see it gone from him, but now the phantom vision had returned as something made real before Vader’s eyes. At once he raised his head, shifting his attention away from the necklace, only to find it then resting in the palm of the boy now standing in the middle of the red chamber.

The Tatooine slave, Anakin Skywalker, almost unrecognizable in his youth and innocence, fought a nervous smile as he lifted the hand holding the snippet to the figure in front of him.

“It will bring you good fortune,” the boy said. His hand shook a little as a young woman, covered from head to toe in delicate silk, reached out to accept his gift. Vader observed the scene in silence, unable to see her face, yet all the while knowing every feature that had earned the boy’s affection.

Vader felt his weakened pulse quicken in anticipation, knowing the reply but still wanting to hear her voice.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “but I don’t need this to remember you by.”

Vader lifted his hand toward her as the young woman’s own eyes rose to meet those of young Anakin. She was so close, nearer to him now than she had been even then, a lifetime ago.

“My caring for you will always remain,” she said.

Vader felt the words touch his fingertips, giving them life as though they were once again his own. In hope, his hand drew closer still, poised to accept even the slightest return of her favor. Knowing all things were possible, he had sought a power to hold on past life and death. Something permanent to stand against the fleeting, fragile things. For this, Vader still reached out, if only to know his faith might one day be rewarded.

The Force marks distance by the span of a whisper and time to the beating of a heart. Of this feeling, he had never let go.

But now.

Vader saw his hand fall away from her, while the other held the carved snippet, now his once again. Vader wrapped his fingers tightly around it and lowered his head.

If only he had known.

“Anakin.”

From her lips, the sound of his name had once been enough to take his breath away. As a young man, he had even told her so — a confession by firelight in which he could barely contain himself. She had returned now, illuminated by different flames to bring that breath back to him.

It was Anakin who could now look on her, even from behind the mask obstructing the scarred ruin he had become.

“Padme,” Anakin said, tempting his own fate with a prayer for nothing more than to have her know his voice again.

They were alone now, and her smile comforted him as if he had returned from a long journey. Everything else seemed to vanish for him when she stepped forward, bridging their common divide in a way he believed was impossible.

Anakin lifted his hand, imagining the glove covering it would give way and allow him one touch of his own restored skin against hers. Padme stopped in front of him, her head tilted slightly to accommodate his unspoken desire. He moved slowly, dreading that the slightest gesture out of turn might frighten her away, but she didn’t falter, not even for a moment while holding her breath in anticipation.

Anakin touched her cheek, as softly as one might, with the utmost care for fear of corrupting its beauty. Even so, Padme yielded willingly, closing her eyes and parted lips in response to her silent content.

Anakin then welcomed her into his embrace, and he could only wish his own arms were the ones around her. By sheer strength of will, Anakin managed to avoid holding too tightly, knowing his armor might crush her should he attempt the indulgence. At once, his entire being seemed inadequate, all of his battered senses waging a futile war against the cold machine to experience the smallest degree of warmth as she held him. Only through the unseen Force could he feel Padme’s heart pounding in rhythm with what remained of his own.

She began to pull away slowly, and Anakin sensed something stir inside him. Fear perhaps that the time had come for her to leave again. He felt the longing stronger than ever, almost too much to bear.

If only he had more time. More power.

Padme’s eyes remained closed to Anakin, and he imagined her being able to read his thoughts. He moved his finger lightly across her cheek to chase away any doubts regarding the strength of his ambitions. If he could have this moment with her, then surely he could have an eternity.

Padme breathed deep.

“And that,” she said, opening eyes Anakin no longer recognized, “is why you’ll never defeat me.”

The cracked voice made Anakin’s chest tighten as his spirit’s only salvation vanished before his eyes. In desperation, he scanned the room, but she had taken everything with her, even the smoldering remnants of his wrath.

All that remained was the old man standing in the center of the room. The bold creases of the Emperor’s face arched back into a smile as his laughter once again echoed throughout the chamber, chasing away any bravado his apprentice may have relished in the presumption of his demise.

“As long as you let your feelings anchor you,” the Emperor began, “forever shall you remain weaker than I.”

Anakin struggled while the words seemed to hold his limbs in place, kneeling while his master approached.

“Always the servant,” the Emperor continued, raising his bent arms in front of him. “Always the slave, young Skywalker!”

Anakin saw the air burning around the Emperor’s hands even before his fingers sprang forward. The light and current smashed into Anakin and knocked him to the floor.

As he landed, the circuitry inside the mask exploded, blinding him as he choked on the fumes now seeping into the cracked respirator. Through what remained of his ears, he could still hear the Emperor laughing.

Anakin Skywalker. That was his name. Even now.

“Anakin!”

He heard it as the pain continued to devour him both inside and out.

“Anakin!”

Feeling the darkness deepening to consume him in his suffering.

“Anakin!”

In her voice, now pleading…

“Anakin!”

Knowing she was gone.

 

A voice rang out.

“Lord Vader, you have an urgent message.”

The burnt man’s eyes sprang open. Tinted in shades of amber and red, they flitted back and forth, surveying his surroundings. Nothing was as it had been moments before, but a persisting panic held him nonetheless, pushing his breath vigorously through the simple mask now covering just the bottom half of his face. Next to him, the medical monitors chirped feverishly in response to his elevated vitals. To his small comfort, he began to feel a rolling mist drift soothingly across the charred horror of his exposed, limbless body, which was suspended helplessly from several curled safety harnesses in the center of the dimly lit room.

“My Lord?” the voice called out again over the comm, now carrying a hint of concern.

“Proceed,” the burnt man said, allowing the familiarity of the medical chamber to ease his racing thoughts.

“The Emperor demands your presence at once,” the voice reported.

A vision of his master’s face briefly flashed through the man’s mind, a sight not unlike that which had plagued his nightmares and delighted in his suffering. Even in this perceived safety, he could almost feel traces of the merciless currents pulsing within him by the strength of his imaginings alone. Although the true origins of his wounds had been immeasurably more ravaging, false memories of betrayal proved capable of creating their own form of torture.

With his breaths steadily easing into their measured pace, the man let his gaze drift in the direction of the communication panel. He hesitated.

The voice had called him Lord Vader.

The name, for a moment, sounded foreign to the man, as it often did whenever he awoke to the sound of it. There had always been another name, spoken by a different voice — one which, in vain, the burnt man still longed to hear instead of the one fate ultimately had deemed more suitable.

 _Always the servant_ , the restless terror had told him.

“Lord Vader?” the voice on the comm spoke again.

 _Always the slave_ , as the suspending harnesses reminded him.

 _Another name_ , the man thought, as his burning eyes slowly abandoned their rage — in acceptance.

 _Young Skywalker_ , as she had dared to love him.

In his mind, the burnt man could see only his master’s eyes.

Vader spoke.

“As he wishes.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a short writing exercise inspired by a scene from VADER EPISODE 1: SHARDS OF THE PAST - A STAR WARS THEORY FAN-FILM.


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